


Watch While I Sleep

by AllThoseOtherWorlds



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Gen, Insomnia, Psychic Abilities, Sam Has Powers, Sam's bodily autonomy, Sleep, Sleep Deprivation, awesome!Sam
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-09
Updated: 2014-05-09
Packaged: 2018-01-24 02:09:33
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,086
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1587782
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AllThoseOtherWorlds/pseuds/AllThoseOtherWorlds
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After the Gadreel incident, Sam needs to have conscious control over his body at all times. Unfortunately, that's pretty hard to do while sleeping. He manages it anyway.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Watch While I Sleep

**Author's Note:**

> **Disclaimer: I do not own Supernatural. I do not make money from this.**
> 
> **Comments and constructive criticisms are always welcome! Even if you didn't finish reading the piece, I'd like to know what you did and/or didn't like**
> 
> **This was written for the Story a Day prompt "Fear", but it was written about a week before I posted it. I was tired today and didn't feel like writing, so I'm uploading this instead of writing something new.**

                Sam was afraid to go to sleep.

                He knew it was stupid – what was honestly going to happen to him while he was sleeping that was more dangerous than _not_ sleeping? He knew what sleep deprivation could do to a person first hand (Thank you, Hallucifer), and had no desire to repeat the experience.

                Nevertheless, he stared at the bed with trepidation, repelled by the idea of actually sleeping.

                It had all started after the Gadreel incident. He’d been possessed before, of course, but he’d always been able to get over it, somehow, and go back to functioning – even if the experience always left a scar. But this time wasn’t like the others. This time, he couldn’t trust Dean.

                The only thing he had left to trust was himself, no matter how frequently he’d been told that trusting himself was a terrible idea. He knew what that had gotten him in the past, but he also knew that as long as he was in conscious control of his mind and body, he wasn’t letting _anything_ into it; poor history with decisions be damned.

                He was okay while awake, for the most part. He had control then, could choose what to do and what to say. It was while he slept that the problems came. Sleep was dangerous now – a long, blank space in which he had neither control over, nor awareness of, his body.

                Some of the pain medications they had to use after getting injured on hunts scared him too, but those were easier to ignore. After all, he’d avoided them for months after the wall broke, and he figured his pain tolerance was high enough that they were really more of a luxury than a necessity.

                But he couldn’t avoid sleep.

                Sighing, he forced himself to crawl into the bed, and spent the next hour staring at the ceiling, hyperaware of every breath, every muscle spasm that passed through him. He felt himself almost drift off several times, flinching awake after each one before he was finally knocked under by his own exhaustion.

***

                Things continued like that for at least a week, and the situation would probably have persisted indefinitely had it not been for a hunt he and Dean caught one day a few miles from the Bunker.

                It was a simple hunt: the ghost of a murderer who’d been killed by one of his would-be victims wasn’t ready to let go. The familiar pattern of a simple salt-and-burn was actually sort of soothing – or would have been, but for the skirmish between a sleep-deprived Sam and the ghost while Dean was digging for the bones.

                If he’d been fully awake, it would have been no problem, and he probably wouldn’t have gotten as much as a scratch. As it was, he was so tired that he very nearly had his head taken off, and was fortunate that the ghost gave him a nasty wound in his shoulder instead.

                He did hold it off until Dean burned the bones, but as soon as the ghost’s flickering form burst into flames he was slumped on the ground, nursing his injury. Dean said little to him as they returned to the bunker beyond making sure that Sam wasn’t in any serious danger, and Sam hadn’t really expected him to say more. They were working as partners now, not brothers, and that was for the best.

                Sam didn’t think he could bring himself to trust Dean right now, when he could barely trust himself unless he was awake. Sometimes he thought, however, that Dean was _trying_ to misinterpret everything he said to make it an attack, when really all Sam was trying to do was protect himself. He didn’t hate Dean, even now, but he needed to keep his distance before he could feel safe.

                Sam lost track of his thoughts as the Impala crossed a speed bump and jostled his shoulder. He almost let out a cry at the stab of pain, but cut it off before it could escape.

                They were back at the bunker relatively quickly, and Dean stuck around long enough to clean and bandage Sam’s wound before he escaped to his room to drink, sulk, sleep, or some combination of the three. Sam was left in the main room, trying to convince himself that sleep was a good idea.

                If he hadn’t been sleep deprived today, he would have been perfectly fine tonight, he knew. Continuing on this path would probably kill him sooner rather than later, and he didn’t want to know what Dean would come up with this time to bring him back if he couldn’t get Death or a reaper to make it permanent.

                That meant that he had to sleep, but it didn’t mean he had to give up control.

                An idea started to form in the back of his mind, and he itched to research it, but he knew he had to get to sleep. But maybe just an hour or so…

                He fell asleep at three in the morning, passed out over a book in the Bunker’s library.

***

                He started putting his plan into practice immediately, although trying his best to not let Dean find out. Keeping secrets from his brother wasn’t, historically speaking, a good idea, but it didn’t seem like that had stopped Dean, and it wasn’t like he was drinking blood or anything this time.

                He breathed in again, trying to focus himself enough to continue practicing.

                The idea had come to him in the form of a book he’d read once a long time ago while still researching his visions. He’d never told Dean, but he suspected that there was more he could probably do, even without demon blood, and it was those other psychic abilities he was trying to reawaken now.

                The thought of trying to reach abilities which had caused so much pain to everyone involved made him feel guilty, but he reassured himself with the knowledge that these, at least, were nothing demonic. Missouri and Pamela had both been good people, and he was willing to bet that they were both capable of the type of thing he was trying to perfect now.

                Once again he focused on his breath, trying to follow the instructions he had read. He had about ten minutes to practice before Dean would expect him to be ready to head out on their next hunt, but he knew he’d have more time at whatever crappy motel they picked for the night.

                He’d get this.

***

                He didn’t start really making progress until a week and a half later, and another few close calls with Dean. He’d been trying to stay energized enough to do his job on the hunts, but it was difficult with only three or so hours of sleep a night, even if he did find energy supplements to get him through (energy supplements were okay, since they didn’t take away his control). Despite his best efforts, he still made mistakes.

                “I’m fine, Dean,” he said, throwing his duffel bag onto one of the motel beds. “I’m sorry I slipped up.”

                They’d been hunting a Wendigo and Sam’s reflexes had been a bit slower than normal. Thankfully, he still got the thing before it could do any major damage, but he was going to be favouring his left knee for a while.

                Dean turned to him, anger flaring before fading into what looked like forced disinterest.

                “I know, I know,” he said. “I’m not supposed to save you.” He glared at Sam. “Just don’t get yourself killed.”

                “I won’t,” Sam promised, glad that the argument was over so quickly – he was too tired to keep it up much longer.

                Dean went to bed quickly enough, worn out from the hunt. Sam stayed up longer, as he always did now, but he forced himself to go to bed after a few hours of research and practice. If he did this right, maybe sleeping wouldn’t be so bad.

                When he finally felt himself fading into sleep, he focused as hard as he could, trying to reach out in _just_ the right way. When he finally squinted his eyes open, he breathed a sigh of relief.

                He’d done it.

Sam sat on the ratted looking chair in the motel room, watching himself sleep. The astral projection had been hard enough to learn while awake, and he hadn’t been sure he’d be able to pull it off while sleeping.

***

                Despite the difficulty he’d found in learning the trick, he knew he’d picked it up faster than most others would have been able to, and that made him nervous. The only explanation he could think of was the obvious – that the demon blood and the powers it had given him somehow helped him with things like this.

                He didn’t like to think about that, but it wasn’t really enough to make him stop doing it. He wasn’t completely sure that his body would be able to rest sufficiently while he was doing this, but he figured anything had to be better than staying awake as much as he’d been.

                It was probably worth it.

                That night, he only managed to stay projecting for an hour – he’d watched the clock on the nightstand to make sure, needing the numbers for the charts and graphs and calculations he was already planning out in his head. He’d started to feel himself lose focus and drift a little after the first half-hour, but had stuck through it until about 62 minutes had passed, afraid of what would happen if he faded away.

                Of course, he knew he couldn’t keep it up forever – not without practice – and he was unsurprised when he found himself waking up the next morning, eyes snapping open as he breathed a sigh of relief at his return to consciousness.

                He wasn’t thrilled at the memory of drifting off while projecting, but the experience had still only strengthened his resolve.

                If he just practiced a bit more, he could do this.

***

                Slowly but surely, he began to improve. He was staying conscious longer at night, and consequently he was sleeping more. He’d been afraid, at first, that the time he spent projecting wouldn’t count as actual sleep, but apparently all that mattered was that his body was sleeping.

                That still left him confused about why the soulless version of him didn’t need to sleep, but the biology of soullessness was one of the very few things Sam had set aside as nearly impossible to figure out. Maybe the link between his body and soul was enough to channel the benefit of sleep into him or something? He had no clue.

                Whatever the case was, he was finally starting to feel more alive and alert during his waking hours. It didn’t help him much with the situation between him and his brother, but it was nice to be fully aware for the arguments and meaningful glares, rather than meandering through them in a daze.

                He’d forgotten how good it felt to be fully rested.

                He’d quickly learned that the time spent conscious at night would drag on endlessly unless he found himself something to do – something that didn’t involve moving things, because he figured learning even one psychic ability was a risk, and he didn’t want to give anyone (Dean) more to yell at him about if it was discovered.

                He was still trying out ideas, but some things did seem to be working. He’d found a TV to stick in his room and had left it on with the volume low so he could watch it as the night passed. It was okay, but obviously dull after a while, so he’d collected some mental exercises he could do.

                He practiced reciting things to himself – lists of monsters and how to kill them, pagan gods and mythology, angels and bible lore, people they had saved, people they hadn’t been able to save. Some nights he recreated places and situations in his head, pleasant or otherwise. He tried to get them just right, down to the last detail.

It was difficult to focus for so long, at first, but in time he found himself getting good enough to last the whole night without much boredom. It probably wasn’t the best way to spend the rest of his nights, but for now it was what he needed.

                He wasn’t afraid of going to bed now, and until he found a way to truly feel safe, he’d settle for not being sleep-deprived.


End file.
